Defy Explanation
by bodiechan
Summary: Sure, we all know Charlie inherited Wonka's factory after the tour. But what happened to Augustus, Veruca, Violet, and Mike? And what happened when a certain cabdriver decided that she'd had enough of viewing Wonka's factory from the outside?
1. The Greedy Boy

_NOTE: This fanfic is based on the 2005 movie "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," not the first movie or even the book. Therefore, Wonka is Depp-Wonka (alright, I'll probably through in a little Wilder too, but it's mostly Depp), and all the other characters are based on the characters in the movie. The one exception is that I might tweak things a little so that they resemble the musical "Willy Wonka" I was in at my camp, such as references to the original songs or Violet's southern accent. If you were wondering, I played Wonka in the musical. God I love telling people that. Anyways, onward and offward, backward and forward. Off we go! _

Chapter One: The Greedy Boy

"Augustus," Mrs. Gloop cried, wringing her hands in the air dramatically as she spoke in rapid German, "how many times have I told you to stop _eating_ yourself?"

Augustus gave a guilty smile and looked up from the chocolate-covered fingers he'd been licking. The fingers themselves had been cleaned long ago, but every so often Augustus would take a few and dip them into his pockets or his shoe or anywhere on him where chocolate reigned, which happened to be almost all of his immense body. "I'm sorry, Mother," he replied, also in German. "But I taste so good! Can't I just have a few more licks?"

Mrs. Gloop shook her head slowly and turned away. "What am I going to do with you, Augustus?" she muttered to herself, forcing her eyes on the landscape flying by outside the window instead of on her son. She'd deal with him when their flight arrived back home. For now it was all she could do to ignore the slurping sounds coming from the seat next to her. "Just don't get any chocolate on my dress, all right, dear?"

Augustus nodded, his many chins wobbling. "Arrigh, Muh." His voice was muffled by the chocolate-coated fingers that had already found their way back into his mouth.

Fortunately, the cabdriver did not speak German, or she would have been completely and utterly disturbed by this mother-son conversation. Who ever heard of a mother asking her son to stop _eating_ himself? But then again, she'd been in the cab with them for a good half-hour, so maybe it wouldn't be much of a surprise at all.

The cabdriver was in a bit of a foul mood. She'd admitted the odd pair into her cab under the pretense that they could give her information, but they hadn't given her much of anything at all. The chocolate boy in the backseat did nothing but lick at his fingers and talk dreamily of food, and his mother did nothing more interesting than scolding him from time to time. The whole idea had been a complete waste, and now the seats were dirty, too. So much for the fame and fortune that the cabdriver thought she could have had. Augustus knew nothing about Wonka's factory save that there was the chocolate he loved inside it, and of course you didn't have to have won a Golden Ticket to know _that_.

The cabdriver had been extremely reluctant in the first place to allow a boy covered in what appeared to be chocolate into her cab—think of how much it would cost to clean the upholstery! But she'd let him in anyway, on the hopes of getting _famous_. Bah. Dark thoughts clouded the cabdriver's mind, most of them a tad nasty towards the boy called Augustus Gloop. She shook her head, remembering exactly how the boy had gotten in, and how much she regretting not running when the boy had first waddled into view.

--

Around a half-hour earlier, the boy and his mother were walking quite slowly from the general direction of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory to the general direction of a certain taxicab. The boy, who could easily outweigh as a small elephant, was lapping excitedly at his brown hands as his mother loudly cried out in what sounded like German. The cabdriver blinked in surprise. They were heading for her cab. She knew they were, but at the same time she couldn't help wishing they _weren't_. The huge boy frightened her from his size alone, but the substance that covered the boy was even more alarming. What could it be? the cabdriver thought fearfully to herself. Mud? Droppings? But the boy _did_ appear to be licking himself, so the only logical answer could be…

The cabdriver's jaw literally dropped open in surprise. But that was preposterous! Surely the fat boy wasn't covered in _chocolate_!

The boy and his mother finally puffed in front of the cabdriver. The woman sighed, presumably exhausted from scolding her son over and over, or maybe it was just the long walk from where they'd come that had tired her out. Up close the cabdriver got a good look at her. She was just as large around as the boy was, but she was a good two feet taller than him, so it didn't look quite so alarming on her. She was wearing a suitably wide and considerably ugly dress, the outfit topped with pearls and too much make-up and a very high hairdo. She spoke with an accent, and her voice was hoarse, her eyes teary as the words tumbled from her fat lips. "Please, Miss, may we have a ride in your taxi back to our hotel?"

The cabdriver suddenly remembered that she was still gaping. She hurriedly shut her mouth tight, and then replied in the politest voice she could muster, "Ma'am, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not. Your son would get chocolate all over the seats and they're a fortune to clean."

The woman stared at her with a very perplexed expression. The cabdriver simply stared back until it came to her why the woman looked so confused. She could have hit herself for it. Chocolate! She'd actually said chocolate aloud, hadn't she? In all likelihood, the boy just had an odd taste for mud, and now his mother would think the cabdriver insane for even _suggesting _the boy was covered in chocolate. Who knows, she might even spread the word to all her friends that the cabdriver was crazy until no one would ride in this particular cab for fear of the driver inside. And it would be a breeze for them to spot the right taxi, as it would be the one with brown goop smeared all over the back row of seats.

But to the cabdriver's surprise, the woman didn't say anything about how many marbles she'd lost. Instead, to her complete shock, the woman burst into violent tears and threw herself into the cabdriver's arms. "Oh, please, Miss, please! We have no other way back to the hotel and as you can see, my Augustus needs a bath very badly!"

That was one fact the cabdriver couldn't disagree with. "Please, Ma'am, it would help a bit if I knew what's all over your son here." She held Augustus's mother awkwardly a foot away from her body, as if afraid of being contaminated by the woman's tears. "Some things are harder to clean from my cab's seats than others. You know how it is." As Augustus's mother gave a nod, the cabdriver felt a little pang of guilt. Her statement was only half true. Whatever was covering the boy, it would surely be near-impossible to get out of the seats' leather, and it wouldn't make much a difference whether it was excrement or chocolate pudding. But the cabdriver couldn't help being curious as to what had happened to this strange, fat boy and his overemotional mother. It wasn't a crime to try and figure it out.

The woman's tears now had the front of her dress soaked through, eye shadow streaming down her cheeks as she hiccupped uncontrollably. She shook her head numbly in response to the cabdriver's question. She was in too much of a state to answer.

The cabdriver released one of her arms from around the woman's middle to pat her awkwardly on the back. "There, there." It was a very strange moment.

The fat boy was eyeing the cabdriver curiously, ignoring his mother's sobs. Suddenly his piggy eyes flitted to the cab and back again, his pudgy fingers twitching slightly.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" the cabdriver asked him crisply. It looked as if the boy was wondering if there was anything in the car worth robbing, and that was exactly the _last_ thing the cabdriver needed right now—not that there was much she owned worth stealing, anyway.

The boy looked at the cabdriver's face, choosing his words carefully. "Do you have any food in that cab of yours, Fräulein Driver Woman?"

_Fräulein Driver Woman?_ Well, one thing was for sure: the boy certainly wasn't starving. He could do without food for an hour or two. The cabdriver shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I don't." She chanced another look at the boy's mother, whose sobs seemed to have subsided a little. She heaved the woman out of her arms as quickly as she could without looking rude.

The woman wobbled slightly on her feet, but at least she was all right enough to stand up now. She wiped her teary eyes on a sleeve and sniffled a few times. "I am sorry about that, Miss. And to answer your question, my Augustus is covered in… chocolate." Another sniffle.

So it _was _chocolate. The cabdriver breathed a sigh of relief. It was certainly odd, but at least now the woman wouldn't go telling everyone she knew that the cabdriver was crazy. And she'd said the boy's name… twice now. What had she called him? Ah, yes. _Augustus._ The name sounded distinctly familiar. The cabdriver racked her brain to think of where she could have heard it before. It wasn't very common. She looked over at the boy, Augustus, and saw him sneak a few licks at his fingers now that his mother was occupied.

"Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking, how exactly did Augustus _get_ covered in"—the cabdriver paused there, struck by the insanity of what she was about to say—"chocolate?"

The woman heaved a great sigh and shook her head. "Augustus was the first finder of the Wonka Golden Tickets. I thought everyone would know that by now. It was all over the news—at least, back in Germany it was. Maybe it was not as widespread here."

A kind of reckless excitement spread in the cabdriver's heart at this realization. So _that's_ why "Augustus" had sounded so familiar—he'd won one of Willy Wonka's Golden Tickets! Augustus Gloop, from Germany. Yes, that sounded familiar for sure. Now more curious than ever, she pushed on. "So you were actually inside the factory? What was it like?" The cabdriver would have given anything to have found a Ticket herself, but having no children of her own, it would have been a little awkward for a grown woman to take place on a tour meant for children. And now here she was with one of the Golden Ticket winners themselves! Surely that was the second-best thing to actually being inside the factory.

The woman, who she assumed was Mrs. Gloop, shrugged. "I would not know. Augustus and I only got into the first room before he fell into the chocolate river!"

Augustus didn't seemed at all abashed by this, still licking clumsily at his fingers. The cabdriver leaned in closer, as hungry for information as Augustus was for food. "There's a chocolate river in Wonka's factory?"

Mrs. Gloop waved it away. "Yes, but poor Augustus has a cold and he sneezed so hard that he tumbled into the river!" She shook her head, her voice slowly rising in what seemed to be fury. "That insensitive Mr. Wonka did nothing about it! He just sat and watched my Augustus get sucked up a pipe into the fudge room with a smirk on his evil little face! And then he sends a little man off to take me to Augustus, and when we arrive he starts stabbing at the fudge with a long, sharp stick!" Tears sprung up in her eyes again as she recalled these painful moments.

"A little man?" inquired the cabdriver excitedly. "What kind of little man?" Maybe she'd finally be the one to discover the mystery of Wonka's workers' identity! Then she'd be as famous as a Golden Ticket winner, famous being something she'd always hoped to be.

To her immense disappointment, Mrs. Gloop ignored her and pushed on. "Poor Augustus! I heard him cry out when he was poked and then the little man tried to pull him out by his hair!" The tears were flowing fully again now. Mrs. Gloop gave a great shudder and sobbed, "Finally he had to call five other men like him over to pull my Augustus out! By then Augustus was covered from head to toe, but of course he was not allowed to stay and dry off—that beastly Mr. Wonka pushed us out at once!"

"What was Wonka like?" asked the cabdriver, slightly irritated now that she wasn't getting any answers. So the factory had a chocolate river and was filled with little men. That was a start, but she needed more if she wanted fame for her discoveries.

"Simply awful!" cried Mrs. Gloop. "He did not care about Augustus at all! All he cared for was his own candy!" She glared wildly at the cabdriver, as if Wonka's behavior was somehow her fault. "Plus, he seemed to be completely out of his mind when he _did_ bother to talk to us. Always saying strange things that do not make any sense!"

Wonka was crazy? Great, just perfect. That was not what the public would want to hear. "What else did you see in the factory?" the cabdriver asked, effectively veering the subject away from the question of Wonka's sanity. When the reporters came to her house asking for information on the factory, she could overlook that one particular fact.

Mrs. Gloop sighed again and shrugged her massive shoulders. "I do not want to waste any more of your time. And my son and I really must be going now. Come along, Augustus." She turned to face her son and promptly cried out in annoyance. Augustus had chosen that moment to start licking his forearm, his fingers now clean, if not a little slimy. "Augustus!" Mrs. Gloop cried, enraged at her son's behavior. The next accusation was in German, but the cabdriver could easily tell that it wasn't something pretty.

Augustus apologized and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking forlornly at the ground. Mrs. Gloop nodded in approval, and then said something in German that made Augustus's face contort into one out of a horror movie.

"_No!"_ Augustus shook his fat head back and forth several times. "Mother, no! You cannot do this to me! I refuse!" He stomped his foot on the ground in fury, his face very red now. "I _refuse_!"

"What is it?" the cabdriver asked, trying to sound slightly concerned. More than her concern was the drive to keep Mrs. Gloop talking, to keep the information rolling.

Mrs. Gloop sighed. "I was just telling Augustus that starting tomorrow he will be going on a diet straightaway. Back at the factory it was dead embarrassing, how many comments those awful little men made about Augustus's size." She shook her head just like Augustus had done, as if trying to convince herself of otherwise. "He is a growing boy, and everyone in our family has always been big-boned. But…" She looked at the cabdriver with pleading eyes. "If socially he cannot fit in because of this, then measures must be taken, yes? It _is_ all for the best."

The cabdriver gave a sharp nod. "Yes." Indeed, she agreed heartily that a diet would do Augustus some good, if only for his own health more than his social life.

Augustus's eyes were huge in his sockets, and his hands were now out of his pockets and flinging dramatically through the air. "No, Mother, please! You cannot make me!" He stamped his foot on the ground once more. "Herr Wonka promised all the Golden Ticket winners a lifetime supply of chocolate, and I _will_ eat that lifetime supply of chocolate!" A piggish sort of delight lit up Augustus's eyes. Apparently this was the thing he'd been looking forward to the most. "He said we can even get refills if we run out!"

"Augustus, dear, please at least try this for a few days," Mrs. Gloop suggested timidly. "You will have your chocolate eventually. It will not hurt you if you save it tucked away for a short while."

Judging by Augustus's expression, he was positive that it most certainly _would_ hurt him. He pouted, his huge bottom lip jutting out below the top one, but all he said was a muttered, "Fine."

Mrs. Gloop put her hand on her son's shoulder, making sure to avoid the more chocolatey areas as not to spoil her silk gloves. "Good boy. Now come along, dumpling, we will find another cab to take us back to the hotel."

The cabdriver blinked. Here was a Golden Ticket winner and his mother, right before her very eyes, and here they were getting away! "What's wrong with _my _cab?" asked the driver haughtily, hands on her hips and a stern look in her eyes.

Mrs. Gloop looked taken aback. "I thought you did not want to get chocolate on the seats."

The cabdriver shrugged in what she hoped looked a friendly way. "No, it doesn't matter. I don't mind. I can get it cleaned. I mean, I'd love to hear more about your tour of the factory," she said eagerly, clapping her hands together. "So, where is this hotel of yours?"

Mrs. Gloop gave directions and allowed herself and her son to be guided into the taxi's back seats. The cabdriver watched them both with a mischievous gleam in her eye as she climbed into the driver's seat. Images flashed through her mind of a possible future: magazine interviews, TV hotspots, a major motion picture even! And of course it would be all over the news: "Simple cabdriver talks to Golden Ticket Winner and learns the long-coveted secrets of Willy Wonka's factory!"

No, she thought happily, "simple" just wouldn't do at all. "Pretty" cabdriver, now that would do quite nicely. Or "intelligent" cabdriver, perhaps. Possibly even "remarkable"?

And maybe, she thought, as the key turned in the ignition and the car started off towards the Gloops' hotel, having this little chocolate-coated fat boy in her taxicab would pay off after all.


	2. The Spoiled Girl

_NOTE: Slightly shorter chapter this time. Only by about a page though. Writing for Veruca is fun; she_'_s definately my favorite of the bunch. Please review, and tell me if you see any mistakes in this, please, it'd really help me. And yes, I know the poem sucks. xD_

Chapter Two: The Spoiled Girl

After she drove the Gloops back to their hotel, no one much seemed to want a cab. The driver had long since given up on trying to get passengers. Instead she pulled over to the side of the road and leaned back in her seat, notebook out and pencil flying. It was a very private notebook, and the cabdriver was the only one who had ever seen the contents of its pages. Only she knew that the little blue book was filled with page after page of poems. The cabdriver's passion was her poems. They weren't very good. No one knew about them. But they helped her pass the time.

Even though Augustus hadn't given her nearly enough information to become famous on, he had at least inspired a poem from her. As she wrote lines and scribbled out lines and squeezed lines into margins, a poem came to form:

Chocolate River

_A brown river flows through a secret room_

_As I watch it seep into every corner_

_I know that this could never be so_

_And yet, here it is, right before my eyes_

_A river of chocolate_

_An impossible miracle_

_As the miracle streams past, parting ways_

_A boy clambers up the water's edge_

_He is young and stout_

_And he sniffs the water _

_Delicately_

_I call out, but he doesn't hear_

_In slow motion, the wheels begin to turn_

_The boy tumbles into the river of brown_

_The river of chocolate_

_The impossible miracle_

_The boy splutters; he is scared_

_His mother lets out a hair-curling scream_

_I watch from the sidelines, but I can do nothing_

_Little men come to play_

_One, two, four, nine_

_They fish the boy out of the brown water_

_A long stick jabbing at the boy's ample flesh_

_He is covered in chocolate_

_A chocolate boy_

_An impossible miracle _

_Yet here it is_

_By the riverside_

She read over it again and shut her notebook with a soft woosh of air. It wasn't very good at all. She sighed. None of them were. It was to be expected, with no formal training or anything of the sort. And she was so tired right now too, not at her best. She leaned her seat backwards and slowly shut her eyes. Outside voices reached her ears, none of them really distinct, until two people walked by whose conversation caught her attention.

"Daddy, why do we have to _walk_?"

"I told you, Veruca, dear, we are not riding in the car with this all over us! Do you know how expensive it would be to clean all the garbage off those seats?"

"But, Daddy, I don't _want_ to walk back to the hotel! Can't we get a flying glass elevator, like Mr. Wonka has?"

"Veruca… we are not getting a flying glass elevator."

"But, Daddy, I _want_ one!"

"That's enough of that, Veruca!"

The cabdriver's eyes snapped open dramatically and her head flew forward, narrowly avoiding a nasty impact with the steering wheel. A _what_? Had someone really said a flying glass elevator?!

But that was impossible. Surely it was impossible.

And as far as the driver knew, there was only one person who could perform the impossible…

Quick as a wink, the cabdriver stuffed her notebook and pencil into the cab's glove compartment and flung open the door. She hurried out into the street in time to meet a little girl and her father, the girl now throwing a fierce tantrum over the fact that her father wouldn't get her an elevator like Mr. Wonka's. The cabdriver let out a little gasp, and then beamed in delight. Both the girl and her father were covered from head to toe in rotten garbage: banana peels, moldy fish remains, and something that looked suspiciously like a few walnut shells caught in the girl's curly, brown hair. This could only mean one thing as far as the cabdriver was concerned, especially as the girl had spilt Wonka's name… twice now… amidst her ranting.

"Daddy, I don't care if you're too lazy to get me an elevator—I am not moving from this spot until you get me one!" The girl's bottom lip pouted, and her arms crossed defiantly across her chest. She rooted her feet to the ground with a wide stance, refusing to move even another inch.

"Veruca, dear…" Her father sighed, exasperated, and tugged on her arms in a silly attempt to uncross them. Needless to say, she was unmoved. "Really, this is just getting ridiculous."

"But, Daddy, I _want_ it!" The girl had seemed firm as nails from the start, but the cabdriver caught her tone raise a few notches now, her eyes betraying the emotion of surprise. Apparently she wasn't used to being disobeyed.

"Veruca—"

But her father never got the chance to reply. The cabdriver walked up to them just then, grinning eerily and whistling a stupid little jingle from a soap commercial. Veruca's head snapped around as she followed the source of the tune, her eyes finally locking on target with an angry "pfft." She made no attempt to hide the fact that she was downright glaring a complete stranger in the face. "What do _you_ want?" Veruca demanded, hands on her hips and a very grown-up look about her.

"Well, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation," said the cabdriver, careful to choose the right words. "If you and your father still don't want to walk home, I could always give you a lift in my cab."

Veruca stared at the driver for a minute, thinking this offer over, her eyes still narrowed dangerously. Finally her head swirled back to face her father, her dark curls bouncing as she moved. "Daddy, I do not want to take a stinky, rotten, dirty old cab! I want to take a flying… glass… ELEVATOR!" She spoke the last three words very loud and clear so they could not be confused with anything else, such as a taxicab, a taxicab the driver was all too aware that it was very, very mundane.

"Veruca," her father warned. He was not used to disobeying his daughter, the cabdriver could tell, from listening to his distinct lack of enthusiasm in scolding her. Not to mention his lack of originality.

"Oh, that's all right," the driver told Veruca as brightly as she could. It was clear, as it should have been from the start, that this was going nowhere. Veruca, it would seem, would not move an inch unless it was in the elevator of which she spoke. Once again, the cabdriver twisted words in a way she hoped would charm the girl's father and end the day with the two of them riding in her cab. Being a poet, she was good at this sort of thing. "So, when exactly did you see this, um, flying elevator, sir?" she asked, addressing Veruca's father this time.

He raised his eyebrows at her suspiciously. "What's it to you?"

The cabdriver shrugged untruthfully. "Just curious."

Veruca glared at the driver with the intensity of a roaring fireplace, but she complied with an answer all the same. "Mr. Wonka's got one. We saw him and that rotten Charlie boy riding in it. And Daddy refuses to let me have a ride, even when that stupid Charlie Bucket gets all the rides he wants!" She flipped her hair once more, the fierce spotlight glare of her eyes focused on her father. "You love Charlie more than you love me!" she said in a very accusing, hurt-sounding tone. The cabdriver, being an avid movie lover, couldn't help being impressed with how fast Veruca could switch emotions. She was an actress, that was for sure: one minute a furious brick wall, the next an innocent, pained little girl with curls and a pink dress on.

"Now, sweetheart, you know that's not the case," the man told her hurriedly.

She didn't look comforted in the least. "Hmph. You _do_."

"Charlie Bucket?" the cabdriver asked, innocently prying apart the argument that was close at hand. "Who's Charlie Bucket?" And why is Mr. Wonka giving him rides in a flying glass elevator?! she wished she could add. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be a good idea unless she wanted to get Veruca even more riled up than she was now.

"Charlie was one of the other Golden Ticket winners," Veruca's father explained apologetically, pointedly looking anywhere but at his daughter.

"So your girl—Veruca—she was a Golden Ticket winner too?" the cabdriver pressed on. She'd known it all along, but if she'd learned anything from the Gloops, it was to take these things slowly, one step at a time. However, unlike Veruca, she was not as good an actress, and could barely keep the rising excitement out of her voice.

The man nodded pleasantly, but Veruca somehow became even more agitated then before. "Daddy, how come this nasty woman doesn't recognize me?" she cried incredulously, stamping her foot loudly on the ground. "I thought I was on TV all over the world. I thought everyone in the _universe_ would know my name!" To the cabdriver's horror, Veruca stormed across the street without warning and shoved her arms onto the driver's shoulders. "My… name… is… Veruca… SALT!" She said this in exactly the same tone she'd used about the elevator, and once more the cabdriver realized nothing would be able to change this little brat's mind once she had it set on something.

"P-pardon me, Miss S-Salt," the driver spluttered, a little afraid now that she was quite literally in Veruca's hands. "Now I do r-remember seeing you on TV, I-I think." She didn't really remember very well at all; the five Golden Ticket winners and their names were all a jumble in her mind, but of course she wasn't about to tell Veruca so. She tried her hardest to wriggle out of the girl's grip, to no avail. She was becoming seriously worried of what Veruca could do.

"That's more like it," muttered Veruca, and she let go of the cabdriver, who promptly tumbled to the ground, seriously shaken.

"I… I…" The cabdriver stood up, shook herself off, and gave a sharp nod to Mr. Salt. "I can see that this is a lost cause. I'll go back to my cab then." She tried to make her voice sound offended and uncaring, but really her heart was full of fear. Pure, heavy, heart-wrenching fear.

"GOOD!" cried Veruca, stamping her foot on the ground dramatically. "And don't _ever_ come back!"

The cabdriver didn't need telling twice.

"Veruca, dear, why don't you run along and get into this nice woman's cab," Mr. Salt muttered.

Veruca gave him a look so deadly that he promptly shut his mouth. However, he seemed to regain his composure a few moments later, as the cabdriver could hear them arguing over the matter as she slowly walked the hundred feet between her cab and the Salts.

She was about three steps away from the taxi's door, when she distinctly heard Mr. Salt say in fury, "Veruca, if you do not cooperate and get into that cab this _instant_, I will be forced to fly home on our jet tonight and sell each and every one of your ponies to the highest bidder."

"You _wouldn't_!" The driver heard Veruca's voice rise dramatically once more, but this time it wasn't in anger: it was fear, the same fear the driver herself had felt only moments earlier. She knew this kind of fear. Once you felt it, there was no turning back. The cabdriver whirled around, beaming like an idiot, and opened the door to her cab for Veruca to hop inside.

--

"Daddy, there is brown stuff all over these seats and it's going to ruin my dress," Veruca whined, as the cab pulled away from the city and into the direction of the Salts' hotel.

"Your dress is already ruined," Mr. Salt told her heatedly. "Now do us all a favor and stop complaining."

"How'd you two get covered in… ah… garbage, anyway?" the cabdriver inquired before Veruca could retort, trying project the impression of being merely curious.

"Mr. Wonka's naughty squirrels pushed me down the garbage chute," mumbled Veruca, a bit abashed.

"My dear lady, you have more things to worry about than garbage as far as your seats are concerned," Mr. Salt said with a chuckle. "Do you know that your back seats are coated with chocolate? It's disgraceful; if I were you I'd get them cleaned at once."

"Yeah, well." Now it was the cabdriver's turn to murmur in embarrassment. "Augustus Gloop and his mother rode in this cab about an hour ago."

"Augustus Gloop?" asked Veruca incredulously. "That disgusting fat boy?"

"The very same." The cabdriver had no doubt that they were on the same page. Compared with Augustus, having this whiny brat in her cab wasn't turning out too badly, even if she wouldn't be able to spill any information. No, the information factor had been given up long ago. Veruca would most likely twist every story to make it seem like she was an angel and Wonka was some kind of demon. But at least now the cabdriver could be able to say she'd driven around two Golden Ticket winners if anyone asked. And at least she and the brat could share Augustus stories.

"He fell in the chocolate river," Veruca announced.

"I heard." The cabdriver stifled a smirk. "Does everyone in that factory fall down something or other?"

Veruca gasped in fury. "Augustus fell in because of his own stupidity! The squirrels _pushed_ me! That's _different_!"

"Sure it is." The driver shook her head and turned the wheel. "So, what happened to the other winners, Veruca?"

"Well, that Violet girl chewed gum she wasn't supposed to and swelled up like a giant blueberry," Veruca supplied unsympathetically. The cabdriver didn't comment. She was beginning to think that soon nothing would surprise her. "And I don't know what happened to the others, but that Teavee kid is now ten feet tall and dreadful thin. And Charlie gets to ride in Mr. Wonka's elevator!" Her voice rose dangerously again as she remembered the elevator in question. "Daddy, when we get home, you are getting me a flying glass elevator just like that one."

"Sure, Veruca…" Mr. Salt wasn't paying attention, watching the buildings fly by out the window.

Veruca must have notice his lack of enthusiasm, because she tapped her father on the shoulder and said in a mock-polite voice, "Did you hear me, Daddy? I said when we get home you're going to get me a… FLYING… GLASS—"

The cabdriver prepared herself for the outburst that would inevitably follow, but it never came. Something inside Mr. Salt seemed to snap after hearing Veruca's plea one time too many, and he announced loudly for all to hear, "Veruca, the only thing you're getting when we get home is a _bath_!"

Veruca turned her patented glare at him, but for once it had no effect whatsoever.

"Well, at the very least you're going to sue Mr. Wonka for me," she reasoned, trying to stay on top even without her elevator, "because having squirrels push your guests down the garbage chute is most definitely a good reason for being sued."

"No, Veruca." Mr. Salt shook his head, looking at her very seriously. "You know what Mr. Wonka said after you fell in?" He said the last few words very slowly and clearly, just like his daughter when she was asking for an elevator. "They… said… you… were… a… bad… nut. Therefore, you deserved it."

"_What?!_" Veruca's eyes widened. Her father had _not_ just said what she thought he'd said. That just didn't happen in the Salt household.

"All I'm saying, Veruca, is that suing him would be expensive and pointless."

"Fine then! If you won't sue Mr. Wonka, I'll… I'll do it myself!" Veruca heaved herself lower in her seat into an angsty, sickened position, despite the seatbelt she was wearing. There had to be _some_ way to get revenge on Mr. Wonka. But she couldn't do it alone. She needed assitants, allies…

And then it hit her.

The cabdriver was pleased on how remarkably silent the Salts remained for the rest of their trip. Mr. Salt was exhausted from the first time ever defying his daughter and he was practically falling asleep in his seat. But Veruca's mind was working faster than it ever had before.

She knew exactly what to do.

--

As soon as the cab pulled up in front of the posh, old-fashioned hotel, Veruca swung open the door and flew onto the sidewalk. Her father could deal with paying that nosy driver; she had more important things to do. Veruca hurried through the revolving door and past administration and into the elevator.

_The elevator._ She was standing in an elevator. It wasn't made of glass, and it certainly couldn't fly, but it was an elevator all the same. And it reminded her of a certain other elevator, the first thing her father had ever denied her…

Veruca shook her head and told herself to focus. There were more crucial things at stake at the moment. If her plan worked, she could have all the flying glass elevators she could imagine. With an obnoxious ding, the doors clattered open, and Veruca threw herself down the hall and into the suite she and her father shared. Next to her bed, there was a phone. It probably wasn't nearly as useful as the one in her bedroom in England, but it would do in this situation.

Veruca pulled a tiny slip of paper from her pocket and stared at in intensely. The only other girl on Mr. Wonka's tour, Violet, that nasty girl who chewed gum all day long, had wanted to be her friend. When the two of them clasped hands and promised to stick together, Violet had slipped her phone number into Veruca's palm. After Violet's dramatic exit as a blueberry, however, all thoughts of friendship with the irritating girl had been driven clean from Veruca's head. Even now, it wasn't friendship that motivated Veruca as she tapped Violet's number into the phone.

It was revenge.


	3. The Gum Chewer

_NOTE: Sorry for the UBER-long period without updates… my muse for the story kind of died. It's been, what, over a year? But today I found the original draft of this chapter and decided once and for all that I was going to finish it. Yay motivation! Whee. Okay, so forget what I said last chapter… while Veruca's my favorite, Violet is absolutely the most fun to write for and I think she might top Veruca on my list by the time I finish this fanfic. I can't remember if they actually mentioned how many chewing awards Violet had won in the movie, so I just made it up. I do think I made her a little too nice though. Oh well—I guess I got tired of writing about brats for 21 pages straight. Geeze… I still have Mike Teavee to do, too, and he's the worst brat of them all. Oh well. At least I can get to my dear beloved Wonka soon… xD_

Chapter Three: The Gum-Chewer

Violet Beauregarde couldn't understand why her mother looked so cross. Sure, it was true that back in the factory, she'd chewed the three-course meal gum even though Mr. Wonka had specifically told her not to. And yeah, she'd slowly but surely turned into a giant blueberry and had had to be juiced by Oompa-Loompas. Well, okay, and she'd admit that she _hadn't _won Mr. Wonka's big prize, even though she and her mother had both been positive that she was the number one candidate for it. But now Violet was all right, really. She was twice as flexible as she'd once been, and not a single trace of a blueberry's shape was left in her form. The only difference was… well, she was blue.

But even that wasn't so bad, really, when you thought about it. Blue had always been Violet's favorite color, as anyone could tell by the matching sweat-suits she and her mother wore on special occasions. So why, as Violet made her way through the city's streets, once in a while adding a trick to her step that even Olympic gymnasts would be jealous of, did she keep noticing her mother's disapproving eyes following her every move?

"Mother? Is everything okay?" Violet asked when she could take the pressing silence between them no longer, craning her neck up from between her legs to get a better look at the face her mother wore.

Mrs. Beauregarde looked pained and when she spoke she beat around the bush in the way she was so good at. Violet was used to hearing it, and used to prying it apart word-by-word until she got a straight answer. But what came out of her mother's mouth was something she thought she could never get used to. "Maybe… maybe I should call a cab, Violet."

"_What?_" Violet cried, unable to believe what she was hearing. To better understand her mother's intentions, she sprung dramatically back up into a pose that most humans would find almost normal. "What's wrong with walking?" The two of them walked _everywhere_, after all. Violet could barely even remember the last time her mother had driven her in a car. Walking was better exercise, her mother had always told her. Plus, with gas prices at their current rate, and the environment slowly deteriorating around them, it would help everyone if they simply walked to where they needed to be. And of course, there was the usual reason as well: speed-walking could win one all sorts of awards, where driving an average, silver minivan wouldn't win you a thing. The Beauregardes were strictly a family of winners. Violet was one, her mother was one, and even Mr. Beauregarde had been one, that is, before he…

Mrs. Beauregarde's expression didn't budge at all at Violet's outburst. Her lips stayed firmly pressed into a stony frown as she muttered from the corner of her mouth, "People are staring, Vi."

Violet was the one staring now—staring at her mother's face. Who ever heard of a Beauregarde worrying about what others thought? If _she _had spit out her award-winning gum every time some stupid kid at school had made fun of her for it, her sixty-three chewing records would all have gone down the drain. "What did you say? _Who's _staring?"

"Violet, you're blue," Mrs. Beauregarde muttered. She was gazing straight ahead, her expression very blank. Truth be told, it was really starting to get on Violet's nerves. "And those weird twists you keep doing don't help."

Violet sighed. So that's what this was about. She started talking in a very bored-sounding voice, like she'd rehearsed this speech a hundred times before now. Truth be told, in her head, she had. "Mother, I can't _help_ it that I'm blue. But if I'm gonna be like this for the rest of my life, you're gonna have to get used to it. We can't be hiding in cabs until I die because I happen to be a different color than you're used to. Now look, no one's staring right now. If you just ignore everyone, they'll go away. It's not like I'll ever see anyone on this street ever again." Her mother's expression hadn't changed. Violet was a little more than worried by now. "And you know why, Mother?" Her jaw snapped automatically with a loud, obnoxious crack, and it suddenly struck her that she hadn't chewed any gum since that three-course dinner piece of Wonka's. Normally she would be having serious withdrawal by now, but at this moment in time, gum was absolutely the_ last_ thing she wanted. Thinking horridly of the sound of blueberry juices sloshing around inside her, she wondered if she'd ever be able to chew another piece again. But that wasn't important right at this moment. Her mother still hadn't answered. She _should_ have answered by now. She knew the answer as well as she knew the alphabet and could recite it even in her sleep. "It's because we're winners," Violet finished for her, smacking her jaws again and worrying more than ever.

Her mother stayed silent. The stony mask of a face she'd worn since the tour was still plastered across her, masking every feature with a dull, unemotional façade. And then Violet's eyes were drawn irresistibly to her mother's hand—held out in front of her to flag down a taxi.

"Mo-_om_!" Violet whined, tugging furiously on her mother's arm, but it was no use. A plain, yellow taxicab had already pulled up in front of them.

The window slowly, mechanically rolled down. Violet stared at the driver, and the cabdriver stared right back. Her potential passengers were a mother and daughter, both dressed in identical sea-blue sweat-suits. The mother sported shoulder-length bleach-blonde hair and a lot of makeup, the girl a blonde bob perfectly cut to fit the shape of her face and ending at her chin. But that wasn't what she was staring at.

The daughter's skin was completely blue.

For a moment, the driver thought the girl was nearly choked to death, but even _that_ wouldn't make her _that_ blue. Now, let's see… the girl didn't look like she'd been painted… dyed, more likely. With a kind of gleeful jolt, the cabdriver realized that it was impossible to be this blue. Completely impossible. So, naturally, if this girl was who she thought she was, then…

"Excuse me, ma'am," the cabdriver asked as politely as she could, "but is your daughter's name Violet, by any chance?" Veruca hadn't mentioned the gum-chewer's last name, but she _had_ said that the Violet from the factory tour had turned into a giant blueberry. So it made sense that this would be the same girl—her blue skin was a dead giveaway.

To the cabdriver's surprise, the girl's mother's nostrils flared up dramatically, and she said in a voice that seemed impossibly calm for someone as frustrated as she appeared, "No."

The blue girl sighed. "Mother, will you please stay out of this, okay?" She had a Southern accent, a warm, friendly, drawling sort of voice like the cabdriver remembered her brother's girlfriend having. "Yeah, I'm Violet," she continued, putting her head up to the open window. "Violet Beauregarde." Once again, her jaws snapped unpleasantly, though gum was absent from her mouth. It felt so strange to not have any for the first time in as long as she could remember.

The cabdriver gave a nod. She started to reply with her own name, as Violet was staring at her in an expectant sort of way, but trailed off half-heartedly a little ways in. Her heart was reeling in pleasure, though her voice betrayed no emotion at all, a feat she'd learned from a Miss Veruca Salt, and she didn't want to ruin it by saying more than she had to. _Another_ Golden Ticket winner? Her luck was simply amazing today.

Violet waved the name away and paved onward, "Y'see, my mom and I don't really need a cab." Snap. "Mother just flagged you down since she was ashamed to have a daughter who's a little blue." Snap. Snap. "But _I'm_ not ashamed. You can pick up my mom in your cab, but I'm walking to the hotel, blue or not. I'm a winner," she added unnecessarily. Snap.

The cabdriver noted that her jaws were moving as if chewing a piece of gum, but the gum was absent from inside. How odd. Racking her brains, the driver could vaguely remember a TV program airing about a girl who'd won gum-chewing trophies _and _a Golden Ticket. The driver gave another nod, suddenly realizing that Violet was waiting for her answer. "How does you mother feel about this?"

"She feels that her daughter will get into the cab whether she wants to or not." A hand tightened on Violet's shoulder, and she looked up to see Mrs. Beauregarde's eyes, burning in anger and humiliation.

"Mother," moaned Violet, but she let her mother steer her in the cab's direction all the same. When the backseat door was opened, however, she promptly back-flipped away in disgust. Mrs. Beauregarde, not nearly as inhumanly flexible as her daughter was, stepped politely back onto the sidewalk at the sight before her.

"Is there a problem?" the cabdriver asked kindly enough. Her heart sank, however. She knew what was coming.

"Your seats are covered in…" Violet wrinkled her nose in revulsion. "…some brown goopy stuff."

"That would be chocolate," the driver said apologetically. "Sorry about that—Augustus Gloop and his mother rode in this cab earlier today."

"What about the garbage?" Mrs. Beauregarde cried out in horror. "There's rotten garbage all over your seats as well!"

"Veruca Salt," the driver explained, trying at an ironic smile.

Violet turned to her mother with a loud snap of the jaw. "Mother, you can't make me get into this cab."

Mrs. Beauregarde shook her head. "All… all right, dear…"

"One of you could sit in the front seat," the cabdriver suggested hurriedly, not keen on loosing two Golden Ticket winners as passengers, at least not when Augustus and Veruca had been so unhelpful. "And, uh, the back seats aren't _too_ bad… the chocolate should be dry by now, and the garbage and stuff you could, uh, throw onto the floor…?"

Violet looked at her mother dutifully. "Why don't you get in the front seat and I'll walk?"

Mrs. Beauregarde shook her head slowly. "Vi, it's a long way back to the hotel, and people will stare, and—"

"Mom," Violet said, as if her mother was a new puppy who had just crossed the line. It was clear that, like Veruca Salt, it was Violet who held the reins in her family. "Mr. Wonka's factory might have sucked the winning spirit clean out of you…" Snap, the loudest one yet. "…but not me, okay? I'm still a—"

"Oh, will you stop it with this 'winner' business already?" moaned Mrs. Beauregarde. Violet's mouth stopped chewing for the first time and literally fell open. Wide. "Vi, just get in the blasted cab before you give someone a heart attack."

Violet stared. "Mother." She shook her head. She could _not_ be hearing this right. Her mother had been the one in the first place that had encouraged her to compete, to fight, to win! Now what had come over her? Embarrassment? Shame? Cowardice? Not one of those was a Beauregarde trait. But Violet complied anyway and climbed onto the mounds of garbage and melted chocolate. How humiliating.

The cabdriver pulled away from the curb, noting the icy silence between Violet and her mother, and decided to stay out of her passengers' business for once. She had her mind on other things, anyway: her latest poem, for example, inspired by Veruca Salt.

Spoiled Rotten

_In a room full of garbage I saw a girl_

_Who had a walnut stuck in her curl_

_She told me she'd been pushed there by a squirrel_

_I asked her why the squirrel had done so_

_She looked at me like I already should know_

_Covered in garbage, there is no lower low_

_She told me she'd gone down the garbage chute_

_And I couldn't stifle my laughter, a hoot_

_But from the way that she glared I knew it was moot_

_Except now the difference is I understand_

_Why this curly-haired girl was sent down to this land_

_And how the squirrels gave her a big helping hand_

_That girl that I met who was lacking in wit_

_Was exactly like garbage; she'd sorted with it_

_When not got her way, that girl would throw a fit_

_Since her parents had spoiled her, rotten rot rot_

_Until no more rotten could that girl have got_

_The garbage was rotten as a chamber pot_

_Just like that girl who would have claimed not_

She smiled in amusement as she recalled the last few lines. This poem wasn't as articulate as the one about Augustus, but at least this one had the humor factor thrown in. And she'd tried out a sort of three-line rhyming pattern. That was new. She'd have to use the style again sometime, since she'd quite liked working on it for this poem…

"That's our hotel."

It was Mrs. Beauregarde's cold southern voice that spoke from the backseat, and the cabdriver reluctantly pulled over onto the side of the road without even having questioned the Beauregardes once. She deeply regretted that, but it couldn't really be helped. She made a mental note not to get so immersed in her poems next time. But her poet's mind couldn't help thinking that "Blue Girl" would make such a nice title, too…

Violet scrambled off of the chocolate-and-garbage-coated seats and onto the sidewalk, as her mother stepped daintily out of the passenger seat door. "Thank you for the ride," Mrs. Beauregarde said stiffly, placing a very firm hand on Violet's shoulder as if to lock her in place. The two matching females walked briskly into the hotel's lobby, as the cabdriver watched from out the window, silently cursing her inability to get more information from her passengers. Oh well. Maybe next time.

The cab slowly wheeled away. So Augustus, Veruca, _and_ Violet had all been a huge flop in the inside-info factor. Now let's see. Veruca had mentioned the fact that Mr. Wonka was now giving Charlie Bucket rides in a flying glass elevator of his, and the cabdriver doubted that her taxi could compete at all with something as mystical as such an elevator. So finding out Wonka's secrets from Charlie was completely out of the question

But that still left a fifth child, one that could very well be a passenger in her cab. Veruca hadn't mentioned much about this last kid, but the driver remembered vaguely from the news a short, arrogant boy who had cracked Wonka's code and found a Golden Ticket after only buying a single Wonka Bar. What had his name been? Oh, dear… it had started with an M, she thought… Mark… Michael… Mike? Mike… yes, that sounded right… Mike T-something, most likely. Mike Tierney… Mike Teeny… it couldn't be Mike Teavee, could it? "Teavee" seemed out of the question. Who ever heard of the last name "TV"? She must be wrong after all.

With a sigh and a heavy heart, the cabdriver pulled away from the hotel and headed back towards the main road. It was too much to hope for that Mike would end up in her cab as well. The driver had never been very sensible when it came to wishes. For example, her lifelong dream had always been to meet Willy Wonka. But since he hadn't seen anyone but those five kids and their parents in the last—how long had it been again?—thirty years, she knew that dream would never come true.

Oh, but how she wished it would!

——

Violet dashed up the stairs of the hotel building, pointedly disobeying her mother's request for the two of them to take the elevator. Climbing stairs was good for her health, and anyway, why should she hide who she really was? It was more than a little irritating how ashamed Mrs. Beauregarde seemed to be of her daughter. Violet, in reality, couldn't have cared less about her new coloration, but… she supposed that if she could somehow go back in time to make sure she didn't chew that one last piece of gum, she would, if only to make her mother stop being so immature. Violet and her mother had used to be best friends. How could just a little blue dye break such a close relationship?

With a jolt of pure anger, Violet realized exactly whose fault this mess was. And if she'd been taught anything in her life other than to win, win, win, it was that everyone is responsible for himself. If you win, no one else gets the trophy but you. If you give someone gum that will turn them blue, you have to find a way to clean up the mess you made.

As far as she could see, Mr. Willy Wonka had done nothing to rectify the situation.

Violet threw the door open and flopped onto her bed made neat as a pin. Lying next to one of the pillows was her cell phone, a shiny, blue device that could flip two ways to reveal a normal phone keypad or a full keyboard such as on a computer. Violet tried to pull the phone up from the covers, only to find a long stringy piece of bubble gum holding it firmly to the bed. _Ewww_… how had she been so careless as to chew gum in bed and not throw the piece out by morning? She scraped the gum off of her phone with a fingernail, and pried it off her nail into the wastebasket. Ugh. And to think she'd once been addicted to the stuff!

Violet flipped open her cell to the screen proclaiming she had a voicemail and one missed call. She didn't recognize the number, but put the phone up to her ear and listened for the message anyway. The voice that came out, amplified by the cheap phone speakers, was exactly the _last_ one she had expected to hear.

"Good afternoon, Blueberry."

Violet jumped at the all-too-familiar voice, but grimaced at the nickname. She thought she could _still_ feel some juice sloshing around in her stomach, and sincerely hoped it was her imagination.

"As you well know, both you and I have been severely damaged—probably permanently scarred—by a Mr. Willy Wonka," the voicemail went on grimly. How true it was! Despite her anger at the initial "blueberry" comment, Violet eagerly listened for more. "I don't know about you, but to me, Mr. Wonka letting things like this happen to his own guests in his own factory is a complete disgrace. I feel Mr. Wonka needs to be humbled. I feel he should be sued." _Yes!_ "But unfortunately, my darling daddy feels otherwise. Therefore, we will have to take matters into our own hands. Come to the Envarton Hotel tomorrow morning, suite twenty-six on level four, if you feel the same way as I do and would like to take part in destroying Mr. Wonka once and for all, just as he destroyed us."

And with that, the voicemail abruptly came to an end. No name left, not even a "goodbye." But Violet couldn't have mistaken the mock-polite British accent for anyone else even if she'd wanted to.

It was Veruca Salt. And she wanted Violet's help in getting revenge.

"_Let's be friends… best friends!" _Veruca had said these words to Violet at their first meeting, before Violet had known what a bratty suck-up of girl Veruca was. But Veruca was right—Violet felt exactly the same way about Wonka. He was a terrible man. He needed to be stopped.

"_People are staring, Vi."_

Without thinking twice, Violet jabbed the little green button on her cell to call back the one who had called her. The phone on the other end was picked up after only two rings.

"Good evening. This is the Salt residence. Can I help you?" Yep, definitely Veruca.

"Hi," Violet said haughtily, her jaws routinely snapping at the end of her word, devoid of gum as they were. She made a mental note to stop doing that. "It's Violet, Violet Beauregarde."

"Ah, hello, Blueberry!" Veruca replied cheerfully. Violet could almost see her arrogant smirk through the phone.

"Don't call me that!" Violet cried, hoping she didn't sound _too_ annoyed. A true Beauregarde never lets _anything_ get on her nerves. And why was she calling up this brat again? Her loathing for Wonka was stronger than her fury at Veruca, but otherwise she would have hung up in disgust on the spot. This girl was never going to be her friend, but at least maybe they would work together long enough to give Wonka a piece of their minds.

"So, you got my message," Veruca said snootily, sounding very pleased with herself and her scheme.

"Yeah," agreed Violet casually, trying to stay focused on what they would do together and not on Veruca herself. "Yeah, I want to take revenge on Wonka. What time should I come to your hotel tomorrow?"

"Good," said Veruca bossily. "Come at ten o' clock sharp, and don't be late. Now all we need are that fat boy and the smart aleck who watches too much TV."

"Augustus and Mike," Violet corrected automatically. Her stomach gave a little flip-flop at the mention of the latter. From the tour's start, she'd thought Mike was kind of cute. And he was very no-nonsense, just like she was. When Mike Teavee set out to do something, he did it. Violet admired that quality in people. It was also the number one thing she strived to do herself.

"You wouldn't happen to know where either of them are staying, would you?" inquired Veruca.

Violet shook her head before remembering that she was on the phone. "Nope."

"Oh, dear." Veruca heaved a sigh, her voice veering dangerously on into a whiny direction. "I guess I'll just have to get Daddy to find out for me then. And he's been _such_ a pain today. He won't get me _anything_ I want!"

"Your dad can find out what hotel people are staying at?" Violet asked blankly. "Isn't that, like, illeg—"

"If I ask Daddy to do it, he will," Veruca interrupted. It was clear that this was something she was proud of. "Just you wait, Blueberry. Those two boys will be standing outside my hotel room when you arrive tomorrow!"

Violet vaguely wondered if all fathers were like that, if they would all break the unwritten laws of privacy to just to please their daughters. Violet wouldn't know from experience, of course, judging by what had happened to _her_ father so many years ago. But Mr. Teavee hadn't seemed especially dedicated to Mike. In fact, he'd seemed just the opposite, completely exasperated by his son's antics and too exhausted to stop him from doing things wrong.

"Well, I have to go," Veruca said suddenly, briskly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Blueberry."

Violet snapped back to reality with a jolt. "R-right. Bye, Brat." She closed the phone before Veruca could react to this new comeback. Her cell let out a small beep, signaling an ended call.

Violet plopped back down onto the pillows and stared up at the ceiling, letting her phone fall from her hands onto the carpet. What was she getting herself into? Was it really worth it in the end, putting up with Veruca Salt and that greedy Augustus—and Mike, who made her head spin—for days and days, just so she could make herself normal again, something she didn't even _want_?

Her call had been in good timing though, because just then she heard the little click of the room's door being unlocked, followed by Mrs. Beauregarde entering inside. Upon seeing her daughter splayed out across the bedspread, she gave Violet a look of complete disdain. "Violet, don't lie on that. You might stain the sheets."

Was it worth it, putting up with Veruca Salt to somehow make herself normal again? Yes, of course it was. Revenge was going to be sweet.


End file.
